He is detained in bed waiting for dawn to break, the shards of morning. Patrick lies far from the herd, an excommunicate from the underworld of his dreams. Waking into work, his eyes refuse to smile as he greets the predators. Boots up the computer, falls into a struggle to stop his thoughts wandering into the manager’s office, her couch presumptuous red and leather. He can envision himself deep among her cushions. He is a stag in the meadow, he bounds through long grass and sun-warmed dandelions. Sleep-working, he brings up a spreadsheet as he sips his mochaccino. Cassia isn’t in – perhaps he’ll filch a power nap. Somnambulates to the settee until his index finger makes contact with the supportive leather. From behind: ‘Good morning Patrick, what can I do for you?’ ‘Hello Cass,’ feels ineffective. Will he settle into the slow hand’s trek toward home-time? He is full to the antler tips with an urge to roar.
Sandi Sartorelli
